My poetry doesn’t come from rainbows.
You don’t just look outside your window one day after a sudden storm and a flood of colors have appeared.
My poetry comes from potholes.
Day after day, month after month, year after year, rain and snow wear and tear my pothole apart.
Sometimes, it gets easier.
Some months there isn’t rain to hurt my heart again.
The pothole remains the same size.
It’s easier for just one day.

My poetry is as raw as it can get.
If I pick up a pen and start writing, I’m not going to lie to the paper.
Just like I wouldn’t like to my best friend, my poetry isn’t fake.
I don’t censor myself, always use appropriate language, or write about the most beautiful things.

My heartstrings are attached to my notebooks.
And if I somehow let you read one of them, I’m attaching you to my heartstrings.

Poetry is like my deep dark secret that I only share with my best friends.
You wouldn’t share your email password or that awkward middle school story with just anyone, would you?

It’s not always the most beautiful, the easiest to say.
But it’s me.

So, hello, friend.
I’m excited to have you here.
I’m Olivia Wirth and welcome to my poetry…